The Missing Piece
by starg8fans
Summary: My take on what an episode featuring a third Holmes brother (played by Tom Hiddleston) could look like. The long lost and presumed dead Sherrinford Holmes surfaces and enlists the help of Sherlock and Watson to stop an attack on London by an extremist group. But after working undercover for several years, which side is he actually on?
1. Introduction

_**Author's**_ **Note:** I started this fic a couple of weeks ago, before the events at SDCC started the rumor mill going into overdrive. I'm a massive fan of Tom Hiddleston, and having him on Sherlock would be my dream come true. So this is my take on what an episode about the elusive third brother could look like. I hope I'm doing the Sherlock characters justice, I watch the show (and did a complete re-watch of all the eps in preparation for this) but I have not yet been dabbling in the fandom. The fic is complete so updates will come regularly every other day as I polish up the chapters. Thanks to my good friend Lizzieanne for being my sounding board and proof reader.

 **Introduction**

It was a typical London November evening. A persistent drizzle fell from the lead grey sky, slowly but surely creeping through John Watson's jacket as he walked home from the tube station after closing up the surgery for the night. The day had been an endless procession of patients with a variety of cold and flu symptoms. With a sigh of relief he let himself into 221B Baker Street, the only thought on his mind the cup of tea around which he would be wrapping his clammy hands very soon. But a loud crash coming from the upstairs flat brought his musings to a sudden halt.

"Sherlock?" he called out. Without waiting for a reply John bolted upstairs, his mind running disaster scenarios like a film: Sherlock battling an assassin, a science experiment gone horribly wrong, or possibly a psychotic client who had taken offense at the detective's candor in dismissing the 'boring' woes of the average mortal.

What John had not expected was to find Sherlock alone, standing in the middle of the room still wearing his coat, with the shards of his prized skull that used to occupy a place of honor on the mantlepiece strewn at his feet.

"Sherlock!" Watson's second utterance of the name had a completely different tone than the first, panicky exclamation. It now combined surprise, anger and exasperation. But when Holmes turned around to his friend there was a look in his eyes John had never seen before. Something so raw and hurt that he immediately regretted his harsh tone. But he also knew Sherlock's aversion to sentimental outbursts, so John bit back any concerned questions, especially the often asininely used 'are you alright'.

"Redecorating?" he quipped instead, only showing his concern and support by stepping next to Holmes. There was no reply from the detective, but John noticed the infinitesimal relaxation in the shoulders, and the usual shuttered, aloof look coming back into his eyes. "I'm rather surprised to see this one go, though. I remember, the first time I came to the flat you told me this was the skull of a friend."

"If you really remembered," Sherlock finally said, and only John's trained ear was able to detect the tiniest tremor in his voice, "you would recall that my exact words were a friend - of sorts."

"I stand corrected." John bent down and picked up one of the scattered pieces. "So what has this poor bloke done post mortem to be stripped of this status?"

Sherlock had turned away to stand by the window, gazing out into the dusk. "It turns out this skull does not belong to the person I thought." His fingers gave a nervous twitch. "Or rather, had been lead to think."

"So are you going to enlighten me, or do I have to ask Mycroft?" John couldn't suppress a small spark of glee when his question made Sherlock turn around, one eyebrow cocked in surprise.

"How..."

"Oh for heaven's sake, give me some credit. You were obviously out since you're still wearing your coat, and you don't make it a habit of visiting clients, they come to you. In addition, you said you were tricked and I doubt there is another person on this planet apart from your brother who can pull the wool over your eyes."

"My brother..." Sherlock muttered, turning back to the window. "There's the rub, isn't it? In fact, I had assumed that this skull belonged to my older brother."

Now it was John's turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise. "Your older brother - surely you didn't think that Mycroft was an imposter all these years?"

"Of course not." Sherlock turned away from the window and began pacing back and forth across the rug, a shard of the skull occasionally crunching under his footsteps. "I'm talking about my older brother, not the oldest."

"So there's a third Holmes brother. And you never mentioned him because..."

"Because I assumed he was dead, obviously. Turns out he wasn't. Isn't." Sherlock stopped right in front of Watson, that haunted, betrayed look once again in his eyes. "And I just found out that Mycroft knew all along."


	2. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_** A word about the timeline. This takes place after the Reichenbach fall, but for the sake of the story John and Mary are not yet an item. Or if you prefer, Mary is away on holiday and John has moved back in with Sherlock for a while.

Also, there is a mention of photographs in this chapter. I have tried to attach them further down, but they don't show up when I publish the chapter, and won't let me post the link either. I guess if you want to see them you'll have to PM me. Or if somebody here has a suggestion how I can include them I'd be glad to hear it.

 **Chapter 1**

Sitting in his usual easy chair, his hands wrapped around the cup of tea he'd been craving, John waited patiently for Sherlock to bring him up to speed on his meeting with Mycroft. The detective appeared lost in thought, his hands forming a tent in front of his mouth, and his own cuppa forgotten and getting cold by his elbow. Finally he lowered his hands and looked straight at Watson.

"I knew the moment I walked into Mycroft's study that something was seriously amiss. His appearance was... in anyone else I would have described it as 'rattled'. But I always thought my brother incapable of such an emotional state."

 _[Begin flashback]_

"Thank you for coming at such short notice, Sherlock," Mycroft said, indicating a chair across from his desk for his brother to sit in.

"It sounded urgent," Sherlock replied as he sank into the offered seat, cataloging the unusual signs of distress in the man before him: tie pin slightly crooked, a hint of perspiration at his hairline, eyes flicking across the room as if looking for a safe place to hide.

"It is." Mycroft remained standing, and Sherlock had the incongruous thought that his brother was about to start bouncing on the balls of his feet with nervous tension. But obviously Mycroft's self control hadn't slipped quite that far. "There is a very delicate mission I would like to entrust to you concerning the retrieval of a valuable asset from a country with which we are not on the friendliest of terms."

He cast a quick glance at his younger brother who remained motionless, implying that he was waiting for further clarification. Clearing his throat, Mycroft continued, "As a matter of fact, when I say 'you' I mean yourself and John Watson. The asset in question is a long-term undercover operative with a military background. I suggested that the best way to establish communications with our man without arousing suspicion would be that John poses as an old army buddy of his who bumps into his friend by chance."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Then I fail to see why you only summoned me. The extraction plan appears to be in place without my input, and it's the good doctor who will be required to agree and to be more fully briefed. Unless..." Sherlock paused and tried - unsuccessfully - to catch Mycroft's eye. "Unless there is a personal connection between me and this 'asset' which is why you don't want to spring this on me in John's presence."

The perspiration at Mycroft's hairline had reached a point where droplets were threatening to roll down his forehead, so he pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed them away. Adding his brother's growing discomfort to the facts at his disposal, Sherlock went on, "The circle of people who are dear enough to me to warrant such a precaution is extremely limited, and to my knowledge they are all accounted for. So it must be somebody from the past. Again, an extremely limited group, and given that my former childhood confidants were all adults their by now advanced ages would disqualify any of them from becoming an underco..." Sherlock broke off. He felt as if he'd been sucker punched. Clearly it was impossible - or was it? But as he had told John countless times, with all other possibilities eliminated whatever remained, no matter how unlikely, had to be the truth. Still, to think with what a monstrous lie he'd been living for years... "What country are we talking about?" he finally asked.

Mycroft gave a deep sigh, and ran a hand over his face. Then he squared his shoulders and looked his brother straight in the eye. "Pakistan."

"No," Sherlock breathed. "It can't be... For God's sake, Mycorft, even you couldn't be that callous!" But deep down he knew it was true, and he felt rage flood him like a tidal wave. It must have been clearly visible on his face, because Mycroft raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Please, Sherlock, hear me out. It's not as you think."

 _[End flashback]_

At this point in the narrative Sherlock stood up from his chair and disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned he carried a small wooden box. Resettling himself, he opened it and began flipping through the contents. After a while he pulled out two photographs. "Since I've been remiss in informing you about my other brother so far, some background information will be required. Second from the right," he said as he handed the first one to Watson. It showed the slightly blurry shot of a school rugby team. Judging by the reflection it appeared to have been photographed off a framed picture.

"Seems like a nice enough chap," John observed after studying the smiling face of the ginger haired youth in the shot. "I take it he lived a somewhat more normal life than you and Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded. "Sherrinford is two years older than I. He was undoubtedly smart and gifted, but not at our genius level. He also lacked our sociopathic proclivities. In fact, everybody said he was one of the most charming and caring people they ever met. So while Mycroft and I were mostly educated at home by private tutors, Sherrinford was sent to boarding school and then university where he studied engineering. And being the good, upstanding, salt-of-the-earth chap he was, he joined the Royal Air Force where he began designing improvements for fighter jets that would be instrumental in saving lives."

At this point Sherlock handed over the second picture. It showed an older version of the young man in a dress uniform, but still with the same bright smile on his face.

"Royal Air Force you say?" John squinted at the photograph. "That's not a uniform I recognize. From the look of it I'd say it's almost a century outdated."

"I applaud your powers of observation," Sherlock noted. "Sherrinford and his friends volunteered to be extras in some WW I movie. That's where this shot was taken. Acting was a passion of his." Plucking the photographs from Watson's fingers and returning them to the box, the detective continued, "To make a long story short, he was on a flight testing some innovative equipment of his own invention when they crashed or were shot down - the details were never established - over Pakistan. Almost a year later we were informed that the wreckage of his plane had been discovered, and his remains were transferred back to England. The insects in the jungle had only left his bones. But the authorities said the dental work matched his records - something I refused to accept at face value, which is why I nicked the skull from the mortuary. To my great distress I came to the same conclusion." Holmes cast a glance at the shattered bits on the carpet. "As much as Mycroft and I are at odds with each other, I always shared a very close bond with Sherrinford, and I felt his loss surprisingly acutely. Which is why it came as such a blow to find out that not only was he still alive, but he'd been in regular contact with Mycroft over the past years, who didn't deem it necessary to inform the rest of the family of this fact."

 _[Begin flashback]_

"For what it's worth, Sherlock, his disappearance wasn't planned. The crash really was accidental, and it wasn't until much later that I was made aware of his survival. In fact, Sherrinford himself managed to contact me. He was being held captive by an extremist group, and he..."

In spite of his perturbed state of mind Sherlock caught the discrepancy at once. "How was he able to contact you if he was a prisoner?"

Mycroft huffed. "By rewiring an old satellite dish outside the window of the room where he was kept. You do remember, brother mine, that his university pals used to call him MacGyver?"

Of course Sherlock did, only too well. With a nod he indicated for Mycroft to continue.

"He suggested to pretend that the extremists had managed to 'turn' him so he would be able to feed us information. He's been extremely valuable these past years providing us with data about the groups' activities. For example, we were able to intercept several shipments of drugs they use to finance their terrorist activities. But now a major coup is being planned, and if we act on the intel it will be clear that Sherrinford is the source. Hence the need to extract him."

It had taken Sherlock a great deal of will power to tamper his anger and to hear out his brother until the end. His pulse rate was still elevated, but at least he was once again able to speak calmly and rationally.

"Of course somebody of Sherrinford's caliber would be an excellent asset to have. But that doesn't explain why you did not share the fact of his survival with me or our parents."

Mycroft lowered himself into his chair behind the desk, looking both physically and mentally exhausted. "It was to protect him. The fewer people knew the better. It's not that I in any way doubted your discretion, Sherlock, but you would have demanded updates on his well-being and his activities, and any sharing of information could have reached the wrong ears. No, he made a new identity for himself, and we let his old one rest in peace." Noticing a wry smile crossing Sherlock's lips, Mycroft couldn't help but ask, "And what, pray, do you find amusing now?"

"I'm beginning to empathize with Watson's reaction when I revealed to him that I had not died in the fall from the roof of St Bart's. At the time I found his resentment puzzling, but now that I've been at the receiving end of a similar betrayal I can certainly identify with his point of view." He looked at Mycroft, eyes hard as flint. "You better pray, brother mine, that this extraction will be successful. Should anything happen to Sherrinford, I will hold you personally responsible. And yes, that is a threat, and you should be very, very afraid."

 _[End flashback]_

"Wow, that is quite a story," John said when Sherlock had finished. "And of course I'll be happy to render any assistance I can to get him back." He shook his head, thinking of the pictures he'd been shown. "It's almost unbelievable that a guy with such a sunny disposition is so closely related to you or Mycroft."

"Yes, he was always the odd one out."

John gave a snort. "As if the two of you are setting the standard for 'normal'..."

Sherlock didn't deign to honor this with a reply, and neither did he acknowledge John's willingness to assist, which had obviously been expected. He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to his friend., "Here are the details of one of Sherrinford's best friends from his training days. Online records have been altered and your name substituted for his. Communications with my brother in Pakistan are too sketchy to agree on an elaborate cover story, so this will have to do. You can familiarize yourself with the details of your persona on the plane."

"Oh?" John took the envelope and pulled out the contents, three pages of single spaced typing. "Where are we going? And when are we leaving?"

"Karachi. And our airport transfer will be here in thirty minutes."

 _ **Author's End Note:**_ Phew, that was a lot of exposition to cover. I hope I made it somewhat interesting. In any case, this fic was written pretty much like a screenplay so brace yourself for lots of dialogue and time jumps between the 'scenes'. It's just the way I prefer to write, because when I'm working on a story I see it playing out like a movie inside my head.

Oh, and of course reviews would be GREATLY appreciated. It's my first foray into this fandom, so it would be nice to know if I'm doing alright, or where I slipped up. And as you can tell from these lengthy ANs, I love to chat. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 2

**_Author's note:_** Thanks to carbonone and an unnamed guest for the reviews. It's great to know I seem to be on the right track. You both asked for quick updates, which is why I've been posting daily so far. It won't last, though, because there is still work to be done on the later chapters. But you should be able to expect about new 4 chapters per week.

A big shoutout also to my proofreader Lizzieanne who helped me get rid of all the pesky Americanisms. There shouldn't be any more from now on.

 _ **Chapter 2**_

"Would you care for anything else, gentlemen?" the air hostess asked as she cleared away their plates.

"No, thank you, not at the moment," John said, leaning back in his seat and wishing she would go away so he could loosen his belt. "I must say, diplomats sure know how to travel," he remarked in Sherlock's direction. They were the only passengers on a plane that looked more like a club than an aircraft with its overstuffed chairs and dining area. "Must be a whopping cover story for flying to Karachi that allows us to travel in such luxury."

"Strategic and highly sensitive papers going missing without a trace from a locked safe at the British High Commission," Sherlock said. He had barely touched any of the long procession of delicacies that had been put before them, and had been extremely taciturn since take-off.

"Oh? And I assume you will have to admit defeat after an appropriately long stay to finish our real business," John assumed.

"On the contrary, as usual I will solve the crime and the culprit will face justice."

"But... it this is just a cover story, how can there be a culprit?" Watson exclaimed.

"The good old carrot approach. One of the local aides has a terminal liver condition. He has agreed to spend the couple of months he has left in the comfort of a British cell, in return for a handsome settlement for his wife and scholarships at prestigious universities for his two daughters."

Watson shook his head. "Mycroft thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

"No, he doesn't. I still have to figure out how this man was able to get a combination that changes every eight hours and is only known to two men at the High Commission. But that will come to me once I have examined the location." Sherlock cast a glance at the pages that were lying on the table next to John's place setting. "Have you familiarized yourself with your new persona?"

"Oh yes, I've had plenty of time to read since the dinner conversation was far from stimulating." Of course John knew that his friend had a lot on his mind dealing with the unexpected reappearance of his sibling he couldn't help this jibe. And as usual for Sherlock it was water off a duck's back, so Watson continued, "It appears your brother was a bit of a prankster back when he supposedly knew me. Some of the stunts we pulled were highly entertaining."

Sherlock smiled fondly. "He sure was mischievous. Loved to play the antagonists in the school plays. Was pretty talented, too. Who could have guessed that he'd use this gift one day to become an undercover operative." He took a sip of water from an exquisitely cut cristal glass. They had both declined the wine that had been offered to them with their meal. "You will have to be very careful what you say when you meet with Sherrinford. We have to assume that his every move and word will be closely monitored."

"I figured as much. So what is this massive coup Mycroft mentioned?" John asked.

"I don't know. It is some kind of attack, but we have not been told the details yet." When he saw John's surprised expression Sherlock elaborated, "Sherrinford said he's not yet privy to all the information, but that he will be able to get it before his extraction."

There was something in Sherlock's voice that had John take notice. "Isn't that a little... unusual to act on so little intel?"

"It is." Sherlock rose from his chair and started to pace up and down the cabin. "I can't help but wonder if I wouldn't be more suspicious if this wasn't my own brother. And whether I'm the best person to oversee this mission. Sherrinford has been undercover with this group for over three years, much longer than most agents would be. We definitely have to take into account the possibility that he has developed sympathies for their cause. Which I would pray to God if I believed in him will not be the case."

He stopped behind Watson's chair, and after a moment's hesitation he put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You will have to be my eyes and ears during your encounters with him. Everything he says, every expression, any interaction with other people may hold a clue as to his real motives. I need to know them all."

John nodded. "I'll do my best. But I'm sure everything will work out."

"Without a doubt," Sherlock agreed. "Things always do that, one way or the other."

"That's not what I meant, I..."

"I know what you meant, and I thank you for your kindness," Holmes interrupted him. "And now I would suggest that we use the rest of the flight for some much needed sleep. It will be late morning when we arrive in a few hours, and there are busy days ahead."

Their VIP treatment continued with a minimum of fuss at immigration, a limousine that was waiting to drive them to the High Commission in style and comfort, as well as lavish guest quarters that were expecting them there. Most of the day was spent examining the office and the safe and interviewing staff members. Watson had a hard time fighting his impatience. After everything he'd been told about the elusive third Holmes brother he couldn't wait to make his acquaintance.

Around 5 p.m. Sherlock told the ambassador that he would now retire to peruse the data they had collected, and asked for a light supper to be sent to his room. Watson announced that he would rather take a stroll through the surrounding quarter and was furnished with a map, a local mobile phone and a pass that would provide him re-entry into the embassy.

When John stepped outside the sun was just setting, but there was no chill in the air, the winters in Karachi being a lot more temperate than in England. John made a show of studying the map, although he had memorized the route to the rendezvous point. This turned out to be a watering hole that was frequented by both rough-looking individuals and local businessmen. As instructed, he sat down at the bar and ordered a pint.

He noticed Sherrinford the moment he stepped into the place. Although he was dressed in a casual outfit of nondescript khakis there was a presence to him that made you sit up and take notice. John followed his progress through the crowd out of the corner of an eye as he sipped his beer. It wasn't hard to do since Sherrinford was of similar build as his younger brother, tall and lean. Watson saw the agent greet and exchange a few words with some of the customers, flashing his bright smile occasionally, before he finally came to lean next to John at the bar where he ordered something in the local language.

John let his eyes wander in the direction of the new arrival by his side, feigning first nonchalance, then puzzlement and finally recognition.

"By Jove - Sherrinford! Is it really you, old chap?"

The man next to him turned his head, and John almost flinched under the intensity of his gaze. Those clear blue eyes over sharp cheekbones seemed to be staring right at his soul.

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for somebody else," he said in a mellow baritone, his diction clearly showing his upper crust upbringing.

"Oh come on, don't be that way. I would know you everywhere. What are you doing here? Is it some sort of..." John cast a look over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a whisper, "... secret mission? I heard you had disappeared, and now here you are in this godforsaken place."

"No, seriously, my name is Jonathan Willow and I assure you we have never met before. And I really have to go now, if you will excuse me."

He pushed past Watson who pretended to try and hold him back, but let go when he felt the other man's hand slide into his jacket pocket. He looked after the retreating form, shaking his head in pretend puzzlement.

It greatly taxed John's patience to finish his beer in a leisurely manner. Whatever Sherrinford had slipped him seemed to be burning a hole into his pocket. His urge to leave this establishment wasn't helped by the fact that he felt the uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck that comes from being watched. When Watson finally left he took a detour along the shore on his way back pretending to look at some sights and only pulled the piece of paper from his pocket when he had returned to Sherlock's room.

"Here you go," he said proudly to the detective, "Phase one completed." But when he realized what he was holding in his hand John's face fell. "What on earth?" Although he was unable to decipher the print, the numbers and their sum at the bottom made it quite clear that the paper was a receipt from some shop.

 _ **Author's note:**_ I would be ever so grateful if you could take the time to let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note:**_ Thank you so much for the reviews, guys, they made me very happy. So here's another chapter for your, bright and early. Hope you still enjoy it. And no worries, plenty more Sherlock in the next one, which will be up soon.

 **Chapter 3**

"It can't be. Or did he give me the wrong paper?" John was turning his jacket pocket inside out, certain he had overlooked something. The small square of paper had fluttered to the floor. Sherlock bent down to pick it up.

"Please don't exert yourself, John. You've done admirably."

"What?" Watson stopped his search and stared at the paper in the detective's hand. "How can that be a message?"

"Written in invisible ink in case of interception. My brother is no fool. The question is what kind of liquid, and what method to use to make it visible... Ah, I see."

"What do you see?" John was getting vexed. He had been so happy that he was for once playing a leading role in the investigation, and now Sherlock was hogging the spotlight again.

"Obviously the nature of the purchase will give me a clue."

"Oh, obviously," Watson remarked, pointing at the spidery scribbles. "And I expect you happen to be fluent in... what language do they speak around here anyway?"

"Urdu," Sherlock replied while perusing the two lines. "And this receipt is for cigarettes and a box of matches. So heat it is."

Creating an open flame was no problem. The rooms were liberally equipped with candles and matches in preparation for power outages. The facility had an emergency generator but it always took a while to get it started.

Watson looked on with bated breath as Sherlock moved the paper over the flickering flame. They didn't have to wait long for a few lines of handwriting to appear.

Tomorrow 11 pm  
Terrace Café Pearl Continental  
First table left of entrance

"That's very specific," John remarked. "What if the table is taken?"

"Never fear, Sherrinford will take precautions to keep it available," Sherlock replied as he held the paper into the flame and placed it in an ashtray where it crumbled to dust. "I expect this table was chosen because there is no security camera coverage. You will still have to be careful what you say, but you should be able to communicate in writing. Make sure you bring a small pad, and brace yourself for deciphering some hieroglyphs. My brother's handwriting is atrocious. And it goes without saying that any written communication will have to be destroyed before you leave the café. Inconspicuously, of course."

"Yes, yes. Hopefully your brother won't go all 007 on me and expect me to eat the pages," John muttered.

Shortly before the appointed time Watson was sitting on the designated lounge seat, enjoying the positively balmy air while sipping one of the club's signature cocktails. There were a few other guests, but they had preferred to sit closer to the edge of the terrace where they had a better view of the city and the water.

On the stroke of eleven Sherrinford came through the door. He had dressed up for the chique venue, wearing a white button up shirt open at the neck and a perfectly cut black suit. With a few long strides he was standing at Watson's table.

"I think I owe you an apology for last night," he said, holding out his hand. "Of course you were not mistaken. It's good to see you, old boy."

John rose from his seat and grabbed the offered hand. "I figured you had a bloody good reason for playing that prank on me." Then he remembered the listening ears who were unaware of their secret ink communication. "But tell me, how did you find me here?"

Sherrinford smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Comes with the territory, I'm afraid. I had you watched."

"So it is undercover stuff you're doing," John said as they sat down. A waiter appeared and once again Sherrinford spoke to him in Urdu. When the man had left with the order John pushed one of the little cocktail napkins in Sherrinford's direction. On it he'd written 'Audio? Video?' Out of nowhere there was a pen in the other man's hand and he crossed out the word 'video'. John relaxed and pulled out the pad he'd brought on Sherlocks' behest. Sherrinford nodded appreciatively, then he casually leaned back in his seat.

"Well, you know how the old cliché goes," he said, adding with a smirk, "If I told you I'd have to kill you." He reached for the pad, and when his shirt cuff rode up John noticed scar tissue around the wrist. "I also understand you're here with my brother. Does Sherlock know about me?"

He held John's gaze as he gave a quick shake of the head.

"Well, I told him about our encounter," Watson said, thinking quickly how to respond to his cue, "but in spite of our long friendship and cooperation he doesn't hold my skills of observation in very high regard. He told me I must have been mistaken. I can't wait to see his face when I tell him you've risen from the dead." John chuckled to himself.

The waiter brought the requested drink, and the two men toasted each other.

"Actually," Sherrinford continued, "I'd be very grateful to you if you didn't tell him just yet. The fewer people know about me the better. My situation is extremely delicate."

While he was talking he was furiously writing on the pad. John noticed he was using block letters, which made it easy for him to read along. _ATTACK WILL BE OF VIRAL NATURE. PATHOGEN SO FAR UNKNOWN._

"My dear chap, why would you let your own brother continue to believe you're dead? I find that rather callous," John went on to mask their silent conversation.

"I'm sure he's resigned himself to the fact over the past four years," Sherrinford replied, still scribbling away. The man sure could multitask. "It won't hurt him to believe it a while longer."

 _GROUP IS LOOKING FOR A COURIER; I SUGGESTED YOU, SO AGREE TO MY PROPOSAL_ John read along.

"Only a while longer - then I suppose your mission is nearing its end."

Sherrinford nodded and took another sip from his drink before he continued to write and talk. "I have all the proof I need to bring down the group I infiltrated. I just need to get the data to England. And I was wondering if I could entrust the transport to you."

"Of course, I'd be happy to. What a stroke of luck that we bumped into each other." John hoped he wasn't laying it on too thick, but he found it quite challenging to speak casually while following the other man's writing. _I WILL MAKE MY ESCAPE DURING THE HANDOVER. BRING A SCALPEL, FIRST AID KIT AND A WET SPONGE._

"I really appreciate your help," Sherrinford said, catching John's shocked expression. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Do you smoke?" he asked.

"I... uh, no, not anymore," John managed to reply. Sherrinford shrugged. He placed the pages from the pad on which he'd written in the ashtray and struck a match. After he'd lit his cigarette, he dropped the burning match in the ashtray and the paper was incinerated. Smooth and incospicuous, Watson thought, certainly more so than chewing them up.

"I'll be in touch about the details," the agent now said. "I have your local mobile number and will call you once the package is ready."

"How did you get... Never mind." Watson finished his drink and signalled the waiter for another one. The two men lingered a while longer, reminiscing about their supposedly joined past. There was a lot of banter and laughter, and when they said their good-byes John couldn't help but think that it would have made his training days so much more enjoyable if he'd actually had a pal like this.


	5. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note:**_ Back on schedule. My apologies to anybody who speaks Urdu for using their language as a plot device to let Sherlock work his magic without regard for accuracy. The same goes for the political and geological situation. It's all rooted in reality, but tweaked to fit the story. This is a work of fiction after all.

And if you'd find it in your heart to leave me a review I'd be very grateful.

 **Chapter 4**

It was long past midnight when Watson returned to their quarters. To his surprise Sherlock was not in his room. John finally managed to track him down in the garden of the compound, lounging in a sun chair by the pool and watching the stars.

"What are you doing out here?" John asked him as a greeting.

"Evading the High Commissioner. He keeps bugging me about the investigation." Holmes sighed. "I certainly hope I won't have to keep up this farce much longer. I told his Excellency that I had narrowed down the suspects to three and that I would interview them at length tomorrow."

"I see," Watson said. "And have you decided on the method the perpetrator used?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock replied, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Under hypnosis the deputy commissioner divulged the current code. The man is a bore and a pompous ass, with a detestable air of smugness about him. He deserves what's coming to him. Which I suspect will amount to nothing more than a slap on the wrist. But, more importantly, what news do you bring?"

"Quite a bit of news, actually." John quickly related to Sherlock what had been discussed at the meeting and what he'd learned, finishing with "I'm supposed to bring a scalpel, a first aid kid and a... sponge?" He shook his head. "I thought at first I'd mis-read, but there's no doubt that's what it said."

Sherlock was lost in thought for a moment. Then he chuckled. "Oh, those crafty buggers. It appears they have access to the latest toys."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you have probably deduced that the scalpel will be required to remove a tracker from my brother. It appears they're using a type that also captures sound. So when it's extracted you have to keep it in an environment with a muffling property, or whoever is listening will know right away that the device was removed. A wet sponge should quite adequately fulfill that purpose."

Watson pulled a face. "I'm not looking forward to performing surgery in the field. I assume I won't be able to use any heavy drugs since he'll need his wits about him during the escape. This might get uncomfortable."

"No worries, John, he's probably had worse," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. When he saw his friend's scandalized expression he continued, "What? Surely it's unlikely they wasted pain killing drugs on him when they implanted the ghastly thing. Not to mention the fact the he had to give his captors reason to believe they did in fact 'break' him. They would have become suspicious if he'd offered his cooperation with only minimal persuasion on their part." A thought occurred to Sherlock, and he asked, "When you saw Sherrinford did he appear in any way... marked? Or incapacitated?"

John had to think of the scar tissue around the man's wrists. "There were signs of bondage, but nothing else I could see. And no limitation in his movements. He looked good. What am I saying, he looked like a frigging model in that fancy suit of his. The tailors in this country sure know their business."

"He was in a custom made suit, you say. Interesting."

John didn't follow. "Why is it interesting what he's wearing?"

"It provides information regarding his status in the group. Obviously they don't trust him completely, hence the tracker. But they wouldn't bother with such a fancy wardrobe for some lackey in their ranks. Yes, a man of his stature and charm would work admirably as a liaison when they deal with people of importance." Sherlock turned in his seat so he was facing Watson. "As I told you earlier, every little detail can help. What else do you remember?"

"Hmm... he didn't interact with anybody, except for the waiter. He's fluent in Urdu, though, as far as I could tell."

"Yes," Sherlock mused, "the capacity for learning languages is a talent equally shared by the three of us."

"Actually, I'm beginning to pick up a few words myself," John said. "Both times Sherrinford ordered something the last word was 'kijihe'. I assume that means 'please'."

A wry smile crossed Sherlock's face. "Well done, Watson. Except that the proper pronunciation is 'kijiye'."

"No, that's not what your brother said it. I'm quit certain it was 'kijihe'," John insisted.

Sherlock looked at him in a calculating manner for a while, then he jumped up from his seat. "Of course, why didn't I see it before!" He ran a hand through his tousled black locks. "No wonder Mycroft was so cagey about sharing which group Sherrinford has infiltrated. Oh, what a wasps' nest!"

"If you feel the need to enlighten me, don't hold back on my account," Watson quipped. He should be used to these moments by now, when Holmes was miles ahead of him. But they still rubbed him the wrong way.

"Right," Sherlock said, sitting down again on his sun chair. "The pronunciation you heard is the Pashtun dialect. This tribe almost exclusively inhabits the Federally Administered Tribal Area located at the border to Afghanistan. The region is desperately poor, but recently geologists have found signs for large deposits of exceptionally pure rare earth elements."

"Rare elements - you mean like gold, platinum, and..."

"Not at all. The expression covers a multitude of elements that are not 'rare' in the sense of 'scarce' but rather extremely hard to extract since they tend to exist only in combination with each other. China used to be the main supplier for the world markets, but recently they've been cutting down on exports for a variety of reasons thus driving up international demand. Of course, a source of easily extractable rare earth elements is a pie of which every unsavory character wants a piece. These people are fueling and funding the Pashtun population's desire to become independent of Pakistan, with the goal of more easily exploiting these riches for their own gains."

"You don't think Mycroft didn't tell you because he's involved with them?" The thought made Watson very uncomfortable.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not necessarily involved, but it wouldn't surprise me if he's pulling the strings of at least one of the contenders behind the scenes. This is just the kind of international power play that my dear brother excels in and lives for."

There was a pause while Watson tried to wrap his head around this conspiracy.

"What concerns me even more, though," Sherlock finally said, "is this business of you acting as a courier for the pathogen. I wonder if Sherrinford was planning to use you like this from the very start. And if so, what his motivation is."

John bristled at the insinuation. "To be honest, after spending some time with your brother I just can't see him batting for the other team."

Holmes chuckled. "So he's worked his magic charm on you too." But then he became serious. "I simply must not allow my attachment to him to cloud my judgement."

"Okay, I understand you have to remain impartial, but give the guy some credit; he's not given us any reason to doubt him so far," Watson argued. "Or did Mycroft give you any indication that it was Sherrinford's idea to bring me to Karachi?"

"No, he didn't," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "In fact, he did mention that it was his plan. But that's not conclusive. Even Mycroft is not immune to suggestion, and Sherrinford could have planted the notion in his head... But," he said getting up from his seat, "we do not have enough data at the moment to draw an informed conclusion. I will work under both assumptions until definite proof is available. Let us retire and see what tomorrow brings."


	6. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note:**_ Oh, come on - almost 120 visitors, and not a single review for the last two chapters? That doesn't really encourage me to keep posting.

I've upped the rating for this fic to 'T' just to be safe due to minor surgery and mention of past torture in this chapter (but nothing graphic).

This chapter was in part inspired by a behind-the-scenes photo from The Night Manager where a make-up artists is painting a cut along Tom Hiddleston's forearm. The scene wasn't used on the show, but the photo - suitably cropped - fits my fic perfectly. As I said before, if you want the link to all the photo files that accompany the story just PM me.

 **Chapter 5**

Watson squared his shoulders as the camouflage painted jeep appeared at the edge of the clearing where he was parked. More instructions in invisible ink had arrived on an invitation to a charity event. This time water made the writing visible, which Sherlock deduced since it was a pool party. As requested by this message John had declined the meeting point Sherrinford suggested when he called as too public. Instead they had arranged to have the handover of the supposed documents in a wooded area outside the city. It wasn't on the way to the airport - that would have been too obvious - but there was a little used dirt road that would get them to the proper motorway fairly quickly.

To say John was nervous was a definite understatement. Not so much about the surgery, that was his bread and butter, but having to keep up his end of the conversation while performing it to fool whoever was listening in.

Sherrinford on the other hand seemed completely relaxed when he climbed from his vehicle. They shook hands while exchanging the usual greetings, and John pointed him towards a chair he'd set up by his car. Surgical instruments and supplies were already waiting on a tray covered with a sterile cloth, as well as the requested wet sponge which had been stuffed into a jar.

"So here's the container with the documents," Sherrinford said as he lowered himself into the chair and placed a cylinder next to himself on the ground. It looked like a medium sized aluminium thermos.

"That's a funny way to transport documents," Watson said as he picked up a disinfectant wipe. Sherrinford pointed to a spot on the inside of his left forearm, and John began to swab the area. "Of course I'm no expert, but I was expecting something more along the lines of an envelope or briefcase."

When he picked up a syringe and a vial of local anesthetic Sherrinford stopped him to look at the label. Obviously satisfied with the doctor's choice, he nodded at John to continue.

"Well, you know how cloak and dagger the intelligence community is." Sherrinford just gave the tiniest flinch at the needle going in and the burning sensation as the drug was administered. "This container has a failsafe that will flood the inside with a powerful acid if it's tampered with. So for the sake of this mission, should you get the urge to have a peek - don't."

Watson's laugh was a little forced. He was looking at his watch. They didn't have time to wait until the anesthetic was 100% effective, but he wanted it to at least take the edge off the procedure.

"No offense, but the contents of these documents are strictly eyes only," Sherrinford continued.

"Now that you mention it," John said as he picked up the scalpel, "where should I deliver these papers? Or will some conspicuously inconspicuous MI-6 spook meet me in a dark alleyway to pick them up?"

As he was talking John had made a first, shallow incision, following the path of a thin white scar that was apparently a leftover from the implant procedure.

Sherrinford's eyes narrowed briefly and his right fist clenched, but his voice sounded perfectly steady when he replied, "Highly unlikely. The squad I'm working for is so clandestine that barely a handful of MI-6 top brass even know it exists. It's basically a counter terrorism black ops outfit which is so secret it doesn't even have a name."

John had to hand it to his patient, he spun an excellent tale. Of course the special ops outfit was a fib, but it would have been just the thing to say for an unwitting associate to feel important while discouraging questions. Sherrinford had to stop talking at this point, though, to grit his teeth, because Watson had found the location of the device and was now cutting deeper. Luckily the tracker was rather close to the surface to enable acceptable audio reception.

"I feel like I just stepped into a James Bond movie," John said to keep the conversation going, and it wasn't difficult to put a trace of awe into his voice.

The next stage would be crucial since they would not be able to talk while John was extracting the bug or the change in volume could raise a red flag with whoever was listening. Of course Sherrinford had come prepared for this as well.

"Here you go," he said, pulling an empty sheet of stationary from his pocket, "These are your instructions for the drop-off. You will have to memorize them, since the paper will have to be destroyed."

"Okay, let's see here..." As quickly and carefully as he could Watson cut around the tracker and lifted it out with rubber-tipped tweezers that would not make a scraping noise when they grabbed the device. Carefully he inserted it into a slit at the top of the sponge, pushing it as far down as it had been in the agent's arm. When it was done, John caught himself just in time before heaving a great sigh of relief.

"Okay, got it," he said, smiling slightly at the double entendre. Sherrinford was already pressing a dressing against his arm to staunch the blood flow. He had gone a few shades paler, but had not uttered a sound. John reached for the needle and thread, but the agent shook his head and mouthed 'later'. Watson used butterfly strips instead keep the edges of the cut together for the time being, and they exchanged a few more pleasantries while pretending to burn the page to give the doctor a chance to wrap the arm tightly with a bandage.

Picking up the jar with the tracker, Sherrinford rose and said, "I guess this is where our ways part, old friend. Who knows, we may bump into each other again at some point. Just do me a favour and wait until I approach you next time."

"No worries, I've learned my lesson," John replied as they walked to Sherrinford's car. While they were saying their good-byes the agent placed the jar on the front seat and started the engine before closing the car door and following Watson to his own vehicle.

"Won't they notice that the tracker doesn't move?" Watson asked as he turned onto the road that would lead them to the airport.

"Not in the near future." A mischievous grin spread over Sherrinford's features. "There are different people monitoring GPS and audio, and I introduced a little something into the former guys' tea before I left. He'll be more concerned with the movements of his own bowels than those of my little blip."

When they arrived at the airport Sherlock was waiting for them on the tarmac next to the gangway leading to their private jet. Sherrinford turned to John.

"Will you give us a minute?" he asked. The raw emotion in his eyes was enough to convince John of his honourable intentions. Nobody was this good of an actor.

"Of course," he replied.

Through the windscreen Watson saw the older Holmes brother slowly approach the younger. For a moment they stood looking at each other. Then Sherrinford basically threw himself at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him tight. John's heart melted at the sight. Still, he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock hesitated a moment before returning his brother's hug. He obviously still harboured reservations that prevented him from simply enjoying the reunion.

Watson waited until the two men broke apart before stepping out of the car. He would have gladly given them more time for this reunion, but safety demanded that they leave Karachi as soon as possible.

As soon as the plane had reached cruising altitude Watson proceeded to finish the job on his patient.

"The anesthetic should still be working, so I trust this is not too uncomfortable," he said as he put the first stitch into Sherrinford's arm.

The agent smiled. "No worries, they didn't bother with such niceties when they put the tracker in. Compared to that this is positively enjoyable."

John nodded, pulling the knot tight and cutting the ends before starting on the rest of the sutures. "Sherlock suspected as much." He hesitated a moment before continuing. It wasn't his way to pry, but he'd rather know the truth than keep imagining what this man may have gone through. "He also said that allowing yourself to be 'turned' would have been quite an ordeal."

Sherrinford didn't seem to mind the question. "Oh, it wasn't that dire, actually. You see, before I was handed over to the group as a hostage I spent a few weeks at a remote mountain village recovering from the crash. Food was scarce, and my hair, which is naturally curly, grew out. I must have looked rather young and fragile at that point, and I played it up for all it was worth, shivering and cringing at the slightest threat. They didn't expect much resistance from me."

"I'm sure your family will be relieved to hear that," Watson said, glancing at Sherlock who was sitting by a window at the other end of the cabin.

Sherrinford also looked at the detective. "I better go talk to him when you're done, doc. I'm sure that active mind of his has a million questions." He sighed. "And so do I. I've missed almost five years of my little brothers' life, it will take time to catch up." He looked back at Watson who was spreading antibiotic ointment over the now closed cut. "How did you two meet?"

"I guess you could say we got thrown together," John explained as he started to dress the wound. "We both needed a roommate, and a mutual acquaintance introduced us. Against all odds, we hit it off."

"I'm glad," the agent said. "I was worried he'd turn into some kind of hermit."

"So, have you thought about what you'd like to do with your life now you're back?" Watson asked, changing the subject. He wasn't comfortable discussing his complicated relationship with Sherlock with a man he'd only just met - even if that man was his friend's brother.

"No, not really." There was something in Sherrinford eyes but it was gone in a flash. "Call it superstition, but it felt like jinxing my fate making plans for the future. My chances of getting out of this mission alive were pretty slim."

"Well, I'm glad you beat those odds." John pressed the last piece of adhesive tape down and gathered his first aid supplies together. "There, good as new. Should barely leave a scar. I pride myself on my needlework. You should try to get some rest, though."

Sherrinford stood up. "Thank you, John. But no promises. I have a lot of explaining to do, and some apologizing as well, I guess."

 _ **Author's End Note:**_ I have the whole of Sherrinford's backstory planned out, but I felt it would disrupt the story too much to insert it as a chapter at this point. If you're interested to read it I could put it into an epilogue, or write it as a stand-alone.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Although they had left Karachi just after lunch it was still only late afternoon when they reached London. They touched down at a military airfield outside the city, where two black SUVs and Mycroft were waiting for them. There was almost something like warmth in the oldest Holmes brother's voice when he said, "It's good to see you in one piece," as he shook Sherrinford's hand.

But he was straight back to business immediately afterwards. "Jolly good job," he told Sherlock and Watson, "This car will take you home. I'll take it from here."

"No you won't." Everybody turned around in surprise at the authority in Watson's voice.

"I beg your pardon, doctor?"

"What this man needs right now is a proper night's sleep. In your favour I will assume that you were not informed that I had to perform surgery on him under less than ideal circumstances just before take-off. As his attending physician I would like to keep him under observation for at least another twelve hours. He's coming to Baker Street with me."

"I'm sorry, but that just won't do," Mycroft objected. "His debriefing cannot wait. There are matters of national security at stake, and..."

"Are they really?" Sherlock asked. "And what matters might that be? We have secured the pathogen - which I might add was not part of our mission statement, so above and beyond duty and whatnot - which means the immediate danger is past." He handed the container to his brother with a flourish. But Mycroft was not ready to back down just yet.

"The debrief is still of prime importance. I'm sure your patient was able to rest during the flight, doctor, so that..."

"Well, you know me, brother mine, I'm afraid my blasted curiosity and need for answers got the better of me," Sherlock interrupted. "I've been plying poor Herring here with questions throughout the trip, never got a moment to catch up on his beauty sleep."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Do you still insist on using that infantile nickname? How old are you - eight?"

"What I'm trying to say is that I have extracted enough information regarding our dearly not-so-departed brother's activities over the past years to keep you entertained for the rest of the evening, and I'm if not exactly happy so at least willing to share these pearls of wisdom with you. Just let Sherrinford and Watson go home."

Mycroft knew when he was fighting for a lost cause, so he agreed. Before they parted ways, Sherlock took John aside. "I doubt I'll be back any time tonight, so he can have my room. I want to be there when Mycroft's tech people open the container to make sure they don't trigger any booby traps. So keep an eye on him for me, will you?"

"Of course I will." As John got in the car he heard Sherlock saying to Mycroft, "There's a lot of ground to cover so let's start right away. The pathogen in question is a weaponized Ebola virus that was obtained through..." That was all he could catch before the car doors closed.

Sherringford who was sitting next to him in the fond of the SUV cast him a thankful look. "I'm very grateful for your intervention, John. I wasn't looking forward to spending the night on a hard chair with a light shining in my face."

He did look tired and drawn, and Watson was glad he'd put his foot down. Apart from the pain and blood loss, returning to a home which had considered him dead for several years had to be putting a lot of mental pressure on this man as well.

"I certainly hope that's not what's in store for you, but in any case there will be no more talk of undercover work or spy business until tomorrow. Doctor's orders. And most of all - welcome home."

Watson had already been up for a while when Sherrinford arrived at the breakfast table the next morning - not surprisingly since he had asserted his authority again the night before. Against initial resistance from his patient he had insisted on administering a mild sedative to help the escaped agent sleep.

John put aside the morning paper he'd been reading as Sherrinford sat down.

"Tea or coffee?" he asked.

"Coffee, thank you." Taking a sip from his cup Sherrinford pulled a face. "Christ, I had forgotten how godawful English coffee is."

"Better don't let Mrs Hudson hear that," John advised. "Until you can get to a store you'll have to rely on her good graces. She's just washing and ironing the clothes you arrived in." He looked at the way Sherlock's t-shirt and flannel pants clung to Sherrinford's body. "Although you'd probably be able to wear something of your brother's."

"I'm in no hurry to leave," Sherrinford replied as he reached for a slice of toast. Heaping a generous helping of marmalade on top he took a bite and closed his eyes in ecstasy. "I've been missing this," he sighed after he'd swallowed.

Watson smiled at his obvious enjoyment. "How's the arm?" he asked.

"It's fine, just a bit sore," Sherrinford replied, looking at the dressing which showed no trace of blood having leaked through.

"You can take it off when you take a shower," the doctor suggested. "I'll redress it afterwards. I want to put some more antibiotic ointment on it, just ito be safe."

Sherrinford nodded, swallowing down the rest of his toast and reaching for another slice. Then he pointed at the newspaper and asked, "Any breaking news from Karachi?"

"Only the success story of Sherlock solving the locked safe mystery at the high commission. However, the person he framed for leaking the code seems to have taken it harder than we expected. He has opted for early retirement and is on his way back to England."

"Really?" Sherrinford stopped spreading more marmalade on his bread. "What's his name?"

"Sir Percy... Winchester? Winterbottom?" Watson searched the paper for the article to refresh his memory. "Witherspoon. That's his name." He looked at the man across from him. "Why, do you know him?"

Sherrinford shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his coffee. "I'm casually acquainted with most of the commission personnel. I think I ran into him at some reception or other. He didn't make a very memorable impression."

"Yes, Sherlock said the same thing. Called him a bore and a pompous ass. His words, not mine."

Sherrinford finished his toast and rose from his seat. "If you don't mind I'll go take that shower. You never know when Mycroft's men will show up to drag me away."

"Hopefully later rather than sooner. But go right ahead. I'll check with Mrs Hudson on the status of your things."

The landlady was just ironing the clothes in question, and she had plenty of questions about Sherlock's elusive third brother so it was a while until Watson returned to their flat, the folded laundry under his arm. As he passed the breakfast table he saw that his mobile was flashing, and when he checked he found three missed calls from Sherlock. He immediately called him back.

"What's the emergency, Sherlock? Missing me and your brother so dreadfully already?"

"Listen to me, Watson, and only answer with yes or no. Can Sherrinford hear you?"

John would have dearly liked to ask for an explanation, but the urgency in the detective's voice made him hold his tongue.

"Uh... no?"

"Is he up yet?"

"Yes."

"Is he preparing to go out?"

"No."

"Good. Whatever you do, make sure he stays put. We'll be there in ten minutes. Seven if you take an illegal left turn here, driver!"

"Okay. Sherlock, what..."

"No questions, John. We just got the lab results back on the substance in the container. It turns out to be a fake. If there is a pathogen it must have been sent by a different route. The question is if Sherrinford was aware of the switch."

Watson was speechless. Like in a trance he ended the call. Then he picked up the bundle of clothes again and knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherrinford? I have your things here." There was no reply, but he could hear the shower running. John tried the door but it was locked from the inside. "Sherrinford? Are you alright?" Still nothing. With mounting dread Watson dropped the clothes on the floor, took a few steps back and flung himself at the door. The old, brittle wood around the lock splintered on first impact, and he stumbled into the bathroom. It was empty and the window stood open. Sherrinford had bolted.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"He's dressed in a white t-shirt, black jeans, a black collared knit jumper and a black leather jacket. Appropriately inconspicuous," Sherlock said as he returned from his bedroom where he had checked his wardrobe. He cast a withering look at Mycroft for usurping the chair where the detective usually sat, but was studiously ignored.

"I'll forward the description to the whole intelligence community," Mycroft said, busily typing on his phone. "I'd rather keep the police and the public out of it for now. Do you have a suitable picture of him I can attach?"

Sherlock walked over to the bookshelf where the box of photos he'd shown Watson before their trip to Pakistan still sat. He handed it to Mycroft who started to flip through the contents.

"I must say, this is a nice kettle of fish," Mycroft said, pulling out a photograph and squinting at it.

"If that's your way of saying 'I told you so' I'd like to remind you that it's your agent who's gone rogue," Sherlock replied heatedly. "How come you did not see that coming?"

"If I'd had the chance to debrief him I might have, but you..."

"Now, now, settle down, children," Watson said stepping between the brothers. "Maybe the situation is not as clean cut as you think. I still can't believe Sherrinford is a double agent - or triple agent or whatever. That look in his eyes yesterday when we arrived at the airport..."

"Well, he is gifted with a more than average talent for the stage," Mycroft said, handing John a picture he'd found in the pile. "This is what he was capable of during his student days. An amateur production. And I'm sure being undercover for so many years has honed his skills even further."

Watson had to admit that the emotion portrayed by the handcuffed soldier in the photograph was very believable.

Mycroft snapped a copy of a shot he'd found suitable with his phone and mailed it out with the description. "There, now all we can do is wait and see if somebody flushes him out."

He rose from his chair. "I have to hurry along, I'm having lunch with an old friend who has just returned from the East. I will be in touch if anything develops. And you will of course let me know if he tries to contact you, won't you?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, while Watson just nodded.

When Mycroft had gone John turned to his friend. "You had your reservations about him all along, didn't you? Why didn't you stop me last night from bringing him here?"

"I needed confirmation," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "And now I have it."

"It's still not conclusive," John said stubbornly. "He may have been kidnapped."

Sherlock shook his head. "There was no sign of a struggle in the bathroom."

"Well, maybe somebody was lying in wait and knocked him unconscious."

"Then manhandled his dead weight through a window barely large enough to let him pass through, and manoeuvered him dow ladder? Not to forget that he procured a set of my clothes and dressed him first. No, John, we have to accept the fact that we've been played, and well played. And now," he said retrieving his coat from its hanger, "I will go out. I will set my Baker Street Irregulars on his trail as well."

"What am I supposed to do?" Watson asked.

"Try to remember everything that was said over breakfast this morning. There may be a clue in some innocuous comment. Oh, and have some fish for lunch. It's supposedly brain food and might help you remember." And he was gone.

John spent a dismal afternoon alternately pacing the floor and brooding in his favourite chair. There were just too many unknowns to even begin to unravel this puzzle. The most important question was whether the pathogen had already reached England via a different route or if it was still in transit which would at least give them time to prepare for the attack. Although there wasn't much you could do to 'prepare' for a massive Ebola outbreak at some unspecified location in a place with such a high population density as London.

It was growing dark outside when Watson's phone rang. It was Sherlock. "Sherrinford's been found," he said. "They're just taking him to St. Mary's hospital."

Watson sat up in alarm. "Is he hurt?"

"Apparently somebody has attempted to beat him to pulp. Meet me in the A&E there as soon as you can. Hopefully we'll get some answers."

Since it was rush hour Watson opted for the tube rather than a taxi, and he all but ran from Paddington station to the hospital entrance. Following the signs to the A&E he saw Sherlock immediately, as usual he was towering over most of the crowd. Mycroft was with him.

"There you are, you've made excellent time," the detective said when he saw John. "He's in bay 7. This way."

Watson sucked in a breath when he saw the state Sherrinford was in. His face was bruised and bloody, and his nose had apparently been broken since the EMTs had tried to stabilize it with cotton wool and sticking plaster. A doctor was just cutting the white t-shirt off of him, which revealed more massive bruising around his ribs and abdomen. But there were other, older marks as well. Red, round spots that had probably been cigarette burns. And the scars of welts caused by a whip or a cane. There were also traces of two former bullet wounds as well as a few crudely sewn cuts. All in all the map of a life lived in constant danger.

"When can we speak with him?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor, a middle aged, rotund woman who wore her jet black hair in a tight bun, straightened and turned to him with an air of indignation. "We're still in the process of assessing the extent of his injuries, but it's safe to say he won't be coherent any time soon. Apart from a concussion I suspect several broken ribs and possibly internal bleeding. We'll be taking him for an MRI in a moment, which will tell us more. But regardless whether he'll require surgery or not, we're planning to keep him sedated for at least 24 hours. Now please excuse me, I have work to do."

Signalling a nurse, they rolled the gurney with the unconscious agent out of the bay.

"Hmm, his injuries appear too severe to be self inflicted," Sherlock mused.

"Seriously?" Watson was appalled. "You're actually considering that he voluntarily put himself in such a state?"

"If the alternative is a court martial for treason, I'd say it's quite within the realm of possibility," Mycroft replied. When he saw John's surprised look he added, "Well, technically he's never been discharged from the air force so he's still under military jurisdiction."

"Be that as it may," Sherlock said, "we won't learn anything from him at this point." He turned to Mycroft. "I assume you'll be taking him to a safe house once he's stable?"

Mycroft nodded. "Where we can make sure there won't be any further unplanned excursions, yes. Security in a place like this is a nightmare."

"Just call me when he's awake," Sherlock said, turning to go.

"But wait a minute, aren't we on the clock here?" Watson exclaimed. "What if the attack is imminent?"

Sherlock stopped. "Unlikely. If Sherrinford is in league with the terrorists, he obviously failed to provide what they expected and this is his punishment. And if this is a ploy to worm his way into our trust again he must be needing something from us. So either way, their game is not yet afoot." He turned once more to go, calling over his shoulder, "Are you coming, John? I skipped lunch so I'm positively ravenous, and there's a quaint little pub around the corner that serves a sublime Shepherd's Pie."


	9. Chapter 8

_**Author's Note:**_ Thanks to the anonymous guest who alerted me to the fact that the formatting on some of the chapters had gone haywire. I think I managed to fix it - no idea how that happened. I'll make sure to look at the uploaded file from now on so this won't happen again.

So, any guesses yet whether Sherrinford is good or evil?

 **Chapter 8**

It was two days before Mycroft reported that Sherrinford was finally fit to be interviewed. Sherlock expressed his surprise that he had lived up to his promise to call, so Mycroft had to admit after some hmming and hawing that their brother refused to talk to anybody but Sherlock and Watson. A fact that filled both of them with more glee than was strictly necessary.

A black SUV picked them up at Baker Street and took them on a roundabout route to the safe house.

Sherrinford was reclining on the bed, his posture somewhat stiff. Watson suspected that his broken ribs were tightly strapped. The patient's eyes were dull and devoid of their usual sparkle, probably a result of the residual pain meds he'd been given. The bruises on his face had faded to a dark purple.

There was an awkward silence, then both Homes brothers spoke at the same time.

"I know that..."

"You've certainly..."

Sherlock waved at Sherrinford.

"By all means, you first."

Sherrinford swallowed. "I know how this must look. But please believe me, I had no choice," he began in a low, slightly hoarse voice. "They made me pretend I wanted to defect and recruit Watson as a courier."

"So it was all a red herring from the beginning," Sherlock said, casting an 'I-told-you-so' look at Watson.

Sherrinford nodded, then winced when a stabbing pain flashed through his concussed brain. "They figured if you thought you were transporting the pathogen there would be less scrutiny on other flights originating in Pakistan, which made it easier to smuggle the virus into the country."

"What did they do to you to make you cooperate?" Watson asked.

"It's not what they threatened to do to me," Sherrinford said with a sigh. From under his t-shirt he pulled a photograph. "There were lives at stake that are more dear to me than my own."

Sherlock took the picture, and his eyebrows rose. Then he handed it too Watson. It showed Sherrinford cradling a newborn baby in his arms.

"You have a child," Sherlock said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Sherrinford sighed. "A son. And a wife - in all but the legal sense. They are still in the hands of the extremists, who won't hesitate to end them unless I play ball.

Watson handed back the picture, and Sherrinford looked at it for a moment with undisguised longing and affection.

"How old is the boy?"

"Six months. This was taken right after birth. We were holed up in a remote base in the mountains when she went into labour. We did the best we could for her under the circumstances, but it was touch and go for a while. It's a miracle they both pulled through."

"So what are they asking of you now?" Sherlock asked.

"Please, promise me that nothing of this goes beyond this room. If they find out that I talked, I will lose my family forever." Sherrinford became visibly agitated and red spots formed on his cheekbones under the fading bruises. "They roughed me up so it would look like I'd been taken against my will."

Watson snorted. "You call that 'roughing up'?"

Sherrinford shrugged. "These guys are experts at making it look worse than it actually is. If you read my medical file you'll notice that there's surprising little internal damage, apart from some deep tissue bruising. They didn't want to incapacitate me for long."

Watson refused to meet Sherlocks eye. He was certain the 'I-told-you-so' look was firmly in place again.

"So once more, what do they want?" Sherlock reiterated.

"The protocols that will be implemented in case of an outbreak. They assumed I'd be taken to some high level location to be debriefed. I'm supposed to hack into the mainframe and retrieve the files." He looked pleadingly at Sherlock. "I realize I can't give them what they want, but I'm sure you can draw up a redacted copy that will stand up to scrutiny long enough so my family can get to safety. Please, Sherlock, if you do this for me I will never ask you for anything else in my life."

"Hmm... You realize that I will have to steal the files if we can't tell Mycroft about your little secret?" Sherlock asked.

"I do," Sherrinford admitted, pushing himself to a sitting position. "I know I'm putting you in an impossible situation, but so is mine. You wouldn't understand, Sherlock, you were never one to form close bonds with other people. But after more than three years of living undercover, shut off from any kind of honest interaction with another human being, Maha was like a ray of sunshine. She saved my sanity, and she gave me the greatest gift a woman can give a man. I just can't imagine losing her and our boy."

Sherlock stood silently, plucking at his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger. Watson was on tenterhooks. Surely he wouldn't deny his brother this request? "Sherlock," he hissed. "A word?" They retreated into the adjacent bathroom and Watson firmly shut the door.

"Why are you even still thinking about it? It's clear the man was desperate and had no other options. And may I remind you that he has sacrificed years of his life in service to his country, it's only fair if we help him out now in return."

Sherlock looked at his friend for quite a while and John knew from his expression that his mind was working a mile a minute. Finally, the detective heaved a great sigh. "Oh, alright. Have it you way. But I would like to remind you that what you consider proof of his innocence is all circumstantial."

"That may be so, but there's a lot of it, and it makes perfect sense plus fits all the facts."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, "but in my experience the best liars know how to bend rather than break the truth. It's what makes them so plausible."

"You're impossible." Watson had reached the end of his patience. "So are you going to help him or not?"

Instead of a reply Sherlock opened the bathroom door and returned to Sherrinford's bedside, who looked up at him with just a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"Against my better judgement I've decided to comply with your request. I'll let you know when I have an appropriate document available."

"And in the meantime you just concentrate on getting better," Watson added.

"Thank you. Thank you both," Sherrinford said, and the relieved smile that lit up his face brightened the whole room.

"Yes, why don't you and Watson play doctor... err, I mean doctor and patient for a while longer," Sherlock replied. "I need a minute to figure out just what the hell I'm going to tell Mycroft."


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"I'm eternally grateful, Sherlock. Thank you," Sherrinford said as his brother handed him a USB stick with the expertly redacted documents. They were meeting at the Baker Street flat since the agent had finally been released from the safe house. Both his medical and his career history slate had been declared clean.

"Just don't screw this up, Herring," Sherlock replied. "It would irk me no end if all my hard work was for nothing."

Sherrinford smiled. "Always so confident in my abilities, little brother. But don't worry. I'm sure this will put me back in the group's good graces, and the moment I know my family is safe I'll give you the time and location of the attack. Which reminds me - I'm not sure if I will have a way of contacting you, so why don't we make an appointment for a meeting right now. The worst that can happen is that I have nothing to report."

"Sure, why not," Sherlock agreed. "Where and when?"

"Let's say tomorrow. 1600 hours in the abandoned Sumatra Road Underground station," Sherrinford suggested.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, well, I didn't peg you for a fan of Watson's blog."

"Guilty as charged," Sherrinford said with a smile. But then he turned serious again. "I may have been dead to you, but you were very much in my thoughts. So I was glad to have a way to keep tabs on your exploits and successes."

"Let's add another one to them then," Sherlock said, clearly uncomfortable with the sentimental turn the conversation had taken. "Although I doubt that Watson will get free rein to publish our current case. Even in redacted form."

"As long as we get a happy ending I don't mind either way. But I better go. Miles to go before I sleep and all that." Sherrinford pocketed the USB stick and held out his hand to Sherlock. "See you soon - hopefully."

"Good luck."

They shook hands and the older brother left.

It was in the very early morning of the next day that Watson was yanked from his slumber by Sherlock shaking him awake.

"Rise and shine, John. The excrement has hit the ventilation system. Obviously Mycroft has his own spies in the group of extremists Sherrinford has returned to. He is aware that they have the handbook of outbreak procedures, and he's hopping mad. We've been summoned to his ostentatious office. You better get dressed in a hurry, making him wait won't improve his temper."

"Right." John quickly swung his legs over the side of the bed, then stopped there for a moment as a head rush hit him. "Oh, Sherlock, I forgot to tell you..."

"Not now," Sherlock interrupted, already on his way out the door. "I barely have time to make myself some tea while you get ready. I refuse to be subjected to Mycroft's tedious superiority without at least a dose of Darjeeling."

During the taxi ride Sherlock was brooding and discouraged any attempt by John to start a conversation. As Sherlock had predicted, they were led to Mycroft's office.

"Of all the ridiculous stunts you've pulled this one tops the list by a mile." To describe Mycroft as 'hopping mad' didn't do the scope of his rage justice. "What on earth were you thinking? No, don't answer that, you obviously were not thinking at all."

Sherlock was witnessing his brother's tirade lounging in the comfort of a sofa and appeared completely unfazed. "Well, we rarely see eye to eye but aren't you overdramatizing things? Yes, I provided them with a copy of the handbook, but all codes were cunningly redacted."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock as if he exuded a bad smell. "Redacted?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Well, these codes don't look redacted to me," Mycroft sneered. He hit a switch and a projection appeared on the wall across from Sherlock. Using a laser pointer, he outlined several figures while flipping through the pages. The detective sat up in his seat, his relaxed demeanour gone. "This is not the document I sent to the extremist group."

"But it is the document that my operative copied from one of their laptops."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't understand..."

"Obviously you must have handed over the wrong version of the file," Mycroft said, his voice dripping with scorn.

"Impossible. I deleted the original file before saving the redacted version to the USB stick."

"You deleted the original?" Mycroft pinched the top of his nose and closed his eyes as if suffering from a sudden migraine attack. "You were keeping a copy of a highly sensitive document on your private laptop?"

"That's usually where I keep files while making changes to them," Sherlock snapped. "But I never let it out of my sight while the original file was on its hard drive. And then I deleted it."

"You realize that even deleted files can be retrieved unless the hard drive is completely reformatted?" Mycroft asked.

"Of course I do, but only if you know that the file was on the computer in the first place. Apart from myself only two people knew about it, Watson and... well, Sherrinford." For a moment uncertainty flickered over Sherlock's features, but then he caught himself again. "But he was only at the flat once to pick up the redacted file, and he didn't even go near the laptop."

Watson cleared his throat. "Actually... well, I tried to tell you earlier..."

"What is it, man?" Mycroft demanded. "Out with it!"

"Sherrinford came by yesterday afternoon while you were out, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed while Mycroft just gave a groan and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Tell me exactly what happened while he was here," Sherlock demanded.

"Sure... um let's see." John racked his brain for the details. "He said he'd forgotten his scarf when he was there that morning. Well, we found it at the bottom of the closet outside. The weather was horrible and he was dripping wet, so I offered him tea. I noticed he wasn't comfortable, so he admitted he had a headache and asked me for some Aspirin. There wasn't any in the bathroom cabinet, so I went downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson." John's voice had become progressively more hesitant and finally dropped to almost a whisper. He closed his eyes. "He played me. Again. Didn't he?"

"He certainly did. Dropping his scarf into the hallway wardrobe as he arrived was only too easy. And did he by any chance ask to use the bathroom so it would give him a chance to remove the Aspirin from the cabinet?"

"No, but he insisted to put his wet umbrella in the bathtub," John had to admit with a sigh. "But really, I was only gone a minute, there was no time for him to retrieve a deleted file."

"That would not have been necessary," Mycroft explained. "I'm pretty sure if I have one of my tech people take a gander at the laptop in question he'll find some kind of trojan or spyware that allows remote access to the hard drive - giving him all the time he needed to search for and retrieve the original file."

Watson buried his face in his hands. "God, I feel like a complete fool."

Mycroft shook his head. "I should have listened. I've heard rumours that our dear brother was quite the little Machiavelli back in Karachi."

Sherlock perked up like a pointer. "Where did you hear that?"

"From Sir Percy. I think I told you the other day I was going to have lunch with a friend who'd been posted out East. Although it's rather surprising we are still even on talking terms after the way you made him take the fall for the break-in at the High Commission. He's very well informed on the whole mess with the Pashtun independence movement, and he told me Sherrinford has been playing different sides against each other."

"Did he now..." Sherlock looked very thoughtful. "When did he tell you?"

"Not that it matters, but late yesterday evening over a nightcap at the club." Mycroft shook his head. "Obviously our brother is not the man we once knew. But Sir Percy has agreed to help us identify possible targets for the attack. I'm sure his input will be quite valuable." Mycroft turned to his desk in what was clearly a dismissal. "Run along now, I need to perform damage control on the mess you created. New codes need to be implemented, which is always a tedious business. We'll be lucky if we get them in place within 48 hours. Until then our defences are vulnerable."

When his visitors were gone he grabbed the remote control and shut off the projection. Then he patted his pockets. "Now where did I put my laser pointer?" he wondered.

"What are we going to do now?" John asked his friend as they walked down the long hallways leading to the exit.

"Not sure what your plans are, but I intend to keep my appointment with Sherrinford tomorrow afternoon."

"I was wondering why you didn't mention it to Mycroft," John mused. "I assumed you expected he wouldn't show. And why would he? He has what he wanted from us, why should he bother?"

Sherlock smiled his famous 'cat-got-the-cream' smile that showed that he had more information than he was willing to share. "Oh, he'll be there. The puzzle pieces are starting to rearrange themselves in a fascinating new pattern."


	11. Chapter 10

_**Author's Note:**_ Wow, almost 500 visitors to this story! Thank you all for reading. We're getting closer to the end of the story. There will be two more chapters after this. And possibly an epilogue detailing Sherrinford's plane crash and how he ended up a spy. Please let me know if you would like to know his backstory. I haven't written this last part yet, since I'm not sure if it would be of interest.

 **Chapter 10**

The emergency lights at the abandoned Sumatra Street station were already on when Sherlock stepped onto the platform and looked around.

"I wasn't sure you would come," a voice said from the shadows, and Sherrinford stepped into the lights.

"I was certain you would show, though," Sherlock replied.

"Really." The genial tone was gone from the voice, and the word was more of a sneer.

"Oh yes. I have plenty of experience with nemeses and criminal masterminds," Sherlock replied coolly. "They never miss a chance to gloat and explain how dastardly clever they've been. And that is usually when I bring them down."

"Ooh, challenge accepted! Let's see if your own brother will be a match for the great Sherlock." Sherrinford came closer. "You have been playing along so nicely this far, it would be a shame to waste it all now."

"Did I? As a matter of fact, I never bought the story with the wife and kid." If Sherlock had hoped to rattle his brother's composure he was mistaken.

"Yes, I overdid the dramatics a tad, didn't I?" Sherrinford admitted. "But I had to cater to my captive audience. Your dear little doctor friend and his bleeding heart simply gobbled it up. I was counting on him to swing your vote." He chuckled "And that picture! I'm quite proud of the staging, actually. Plenty of newborns in Karachi orphanages. I thought the undershirt was a nice touch, and the lighting was just perfect."

"Be that as it may, it was quite clear to me that a man of your intelligence and in your position would never give his captors this kind of leverage," Sherlock clarified. "And I also don't believe that you will go through with this attack."

"Oh, but I will, brother dear," Sherrinford said. "Everything is in motion, and my contributions to its success will finally catapult me to the position I deserve. I can't tell you how galling it is to be ordered around by a pompous ass who is far beneath you intellectually. I've had too much of that already at Cambridge and in the military, I don't intend to make it the status quo for the rest of my life."

"The rest of your life could be very uncomfortable indeed if you are sentenced for treason," Sherlock pointed out.

Sherrinford laughed out loud. "You have to catch me first. By morning I'll be over the hills and far away. And you won't be able to detain me. I made sure you came alone today, Sherlock. I may not be up to your level of genius, but I'm positive I can comfortably take you in hand-to-hand combat."

"Don't be too sure of yourself." Sherlock took up a basic martial arts stance, hands raised. "I've been dabbling in some fighting techniques myself."

"Seriously?" Sherrinford seemed deeply amused. "You really want us to..." He broke off. The little red dot from a sniper rifle had suddenly appeared on the lapel of Sherlock's coat.

"Hmm, it appears you did not come on your own," Sherlock noted when he realized what his brother was staring at. "How terribly unsporting of you."

Sherrinford had seemed taken aback for a moment, but in an instant the had reasserted himself. "Just a little warning before we part ways. Stay out of my way and don't interfere, Sherlock. I'd like to think our plan is foolproof, but I also don't underestimate your insatiable urge to meddle."

"And let you and your partners in crime exploit a newly founded country for your own gains? Not likely."

"Yes, I was quite impressed how quickly you figured that out." Sherrinford gave a few slow claps. "Top of the class as usual. But your opposition to this plan puzzles me. Think about it, without a strong guiding hand the Pashtuns will destroy each other over the deposits once they get their independence. It will be the South Sudan mess all over again. Different war lords battling it out while the innocent suffer and another refugee crisis looms. And if Pakistan takes control of the mining the local population won't see much of the profit either."

"Oh yes, you're a real humanitarian, aren't you? Yes, the shortage in rare earth elements has driven the price sky high and you will make a handsome profit, but I doubt much of it will trickle down to the population." Sherlock shook his head. "Enough, I'm getting tired of your justifications. Just run along and play your games. I guarantee you the outcome will not live up to your expectations." The red dot was still stubbornly clinging to the detective's chest.

"Well, I guess we'll see who is right in the not too distant future." Sherrinford pulled a package of cigarettes and a book of matches from his pocket. He tore off the last match, used it to light his cigarette and threw the empty book away. "Well, it was a real pleasure seeing you again. Say farewell to Mycroft for me. We're family after all." He turned to go.

"What about our parents?"

Sherrinford stopped. "They already believe I'm dead. Let's leave it at that."

"And what about your friend with the rifle?" Sherlock asked.

Sherrinford had started walking down the platform again. "Oh, don't worry. He's just here to make sure you won't follow me. A three minute head start should suffice."

Sherlock waited the allotted three minutes, then he turned to the tracks and said, "That will do, Watson. Excellent timing."

The red dot disappeared, and a moment later John climbed up on the platform. "Well, did this little gadget do the trick?" he asked, waving Mycroft's laser pointer. "Did you get the information you were looking for?"

"I certainly did," Sherlock said. "But let's make haste and return home, I need to research home ownership in Mayfair."

"Mayfair?" Watson exclaimed. "If I remember correctly, none of the possible targets on the list Mycroft sent over this morning was in Mayfair."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied. He bent down and picked up the book of matches Sherrinford had discarded. "The question is why."


	12. Chapter 11

_**Author's Note:**_ This is the penultimate chapter. The remaining loose ends will (hopefully) be tied up in the final one that will be posted Thursday. I'll be away for about a week without internet access afterwards, so if you would like to see an epilogue with Sherrinford's backstory let me know and I'll write it during my break.

 **Chapter 11**

At 11 pm a taxi rolled to a stop before a Victorian brownstone on Hallam Street in Mayfair. An elderly man in evening attire climbed out and hurried towards the entrance. He stopped for a minute and looked up at a set of windows on the second floor. They were dark. Then he let himself into the building with a key.

Glancing at his watch he decided not to wait for the old fashioned and extremely slow lift but hurried up the two flights of stairs. Out of breath he arrived at the door of the flat in question and let himself inside.

Without bothering to turn on the light since the rooms were sufficiently illuminated by the streetlamps outside he rushed to the bedroom door. Knocking on it softly he called, "Sarah?"

"I'm afraid not," a male voice said behind him, and the elderly man turned around with a startled yelp. "You!" he breathed.

Sherrinford Holmes was sitting in an easy chair whose garish pink rose pattern formed a startling contrast to his black clothes and the gun in his hand.

"In the flesh, Sir Percy," he said.

"Where is Sarah?" The older man took a step in Sherrinford's direction.

"No worries, your granddaughter is still very much enjoying her semester abroad. And no, there is no danger of a break-up with her fiancé. Although I sincerely doubt that you will be dancing at her wedding."

Sir Percy snorted. "If we linger about much longer neither of us will be doing much of anything."

Sherrinford got up from his seat. "That's where you are mistaken. The aerosol containers with the Ebola virus around the corner are being dismantled as we speak. My brother Sherlock is seeing to that."

"Your brother..." Sir Percy appeared momentarily stunned. "But how did he..."

"It's amazing how much information you can cram on a magnetic strip hidden inside a book of matches," Sherrinford mused. He was slowly approaching the other man, gun pointed unwaveringly at his chest.

Sir Percy cast a nervous look at the firearm. "How did you figure out it was me?" he asked. "I thought I had covered my tracks quite cleverly."

"You did," Sherrinford admitted. "I called for an extraction because I thought the mastermind was located in London. It was clear from some of the instructions the extremists received that whoever it was had access to highly sensitive government information. You made a mistake when you followed me here from Karachi. It was just too much of a coincidence, and your excuse was rather feeble. The hypnosis affair would not have harmed your diplomatic career, there was no immediate reason to resign. So I decided to set this trap for you to make sure I suspected the correct man." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Game over, Sir Percy. You will have no more opportunity to dabble in other peoples' affairs."

"I believe you're overestimating your position, young man." Sir Percy's arrogant air had returned. " Where's your proof that I had any knowledge of this attack? The fact that I'm here at this moment can be easily attributed to my concern for my granddaughter's well-being. I have the fake text message from her on my phone, after all. And even if you dared accuse me, who would take the word of turncoat like you over that of a respectable diplomat?"

"Oh, I'm well aware of the loopholes you can use to wriggle free. That's why I have no intention of handing you over to the authorities. No, Sir Percy, this ends right here, right now." Sherrinford took a step back and grabbed the gun in a two handed grip.

"Now wait here," Sir Percy said in a slightly panicked voice, "No need to overreact. Consider the ramifications, man. After the stunt you pulled with the outbreak protocols I'm the only person who can confirm you were not involved in this attack. If you kill me now you'll be a fugitive or a prisoner for the rest of your life!"

Sherrinford nodded. "A price I'm willing to pay. I've already dedicated more than three years of my life to this cause, and I intend to see it through - whatever the cost."

"How utterly noble of you, but quite unnecessary," a voice coming from the flat's hallway interrupted them.

Sherrinford gave a start, but didn't lower the gun. "Sherlock," he sighed. "What are you doing here?"

"Stopping you from playing the hero and making a fantastic mistake, obviously," the detective replied as he stepped into the room, a small voice recorder in his hand. "Thank you for leaving the door open," he said to Sir Percy.

The former diplomat snorted. "That recording won't change a thing. It can easily be discredited as a fake."

"He's right, I'm afraid, Sherlock," Sherrinford said. "No record or witness will be able to make this case watertight. No, this is the only way."

"Yes, it may not suffice in a regular court of law," Sherlock admitted. "But there will be no need to convince a jury, only our dear brother Mycroft. He has ways of prosecuting and convicting criminals of Sir Percy's calibre without involving the official channels." He turned to his brother. "He's come a long way towards forgiving you since I gave him your little blueprint with the locations of the viral detonators."

"But..." Sir Percy began.

"Oh, be quiet, will you?" Sherlock told him. "I've had quite enough of your yammering." He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit a number on speed dial. "Mycroft? Would you be so kind to send a special ops team to 38 Hallam Street. I have a parcel that urgently requires pick-up. What? No, I won't tell you what it is, that would spoil the surprise. Oh, and you better start thinking about it how you will gently break it to our parents that son no. 2 is still among the living. Yes, this time he's exonerated himself beyond the shadow of a doubt."


	13. Chapter 12

_**Author's Note:**_ And here it is, the conclusion. I hope you enjoyed the story, and it would be great to hear from you, regardless whether you did or didn't.

 **Chapter 12**

"Seriously, you could have knocked me down with a feather when you showed up at the flat. How on earth did you know where I would be? Oh, thank you Mrs. Hudson," Sherrinford said as the landlady handed him a cup of tea. The smile he gave her made the poor dear quite flustered, and she disappeared practically giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Oh, I began to smell a rat when Sir Percy started to pop up at every corner like a meerkat," Sherlock explained. "And when I went over the list of potential targets he had drawn up for Mycroft I noticed that a very obvious choice was missing - the Chinese consulate. China is prominently involved in the rare earth elements trade. And they are notoriously reluctant to follow protocols imposed on them by foreign nationals. If anybody wanted to spread the virus the Chinese would have played right into their hands by bypassing quarantine."

"And the file with the outbreak protocols could have supplied loopholes the Chinese could exploit," Watson added. He had to pour himself his own cup of tea due to Mrs. Hudson's sudden departure.

"That's what I was thinking when I initially asked you for it," Sherrinford agreed. "I needed a way to find favour again with the group. When we left Pakistan I really thought that we had the virus in our possession. But when John here told me about Sir Percy's unexpected return I began to suspect that we'd been duped. It was much safer for him to transport the pathogen in his own diplomatic bags. I decided to go back undercover, and the protocols were my entry ticket."

"But if you weren't back with the extremists back then, who beat you up?" Watson wanted to know.

"Oh, it was easy enough to pick a fight with a bunch of ruffians who were too drunk to do any proper damage," Sherrinford said. "I've learned how to roll with the punches, it was a calculated risk." He turned to Sherlock. "I'm sorry about the stolen file, but I knew if Sir Percy was involved he would be able to spot a fake right away. And since he's such a pal of Mycroft I needed both of you to believe me a traitor or you might have said something damaging inadvertently."

"You still haven't explained how you knew about the flat, Sherlock," Watson reminded the detective.

"As a member of the British Government Sir Percy's real estate holdings are a matter of public record. When I found out that he owned a flat around the corner from the Chinese consulate which he had sub-let to his only granddaughter, I figured Sherrinford would set a trap for him there." Sherlock took a sip of tea. "And of course it helped that you tipped me off during our encounter at the Underground station," he said to Sherrinford.

"I tipped you off? How?"

"When you referred to the mastermind as a 'pompous ass', of course," Sherlock said smugly.

Sherrinford laughed. "That wasn't a tip-off, although in retrospect I wish I had thought of it. I added that little tirade to give the impression that I was unaware of being bugged to whoever was listening." He fidgeted with the biscuit on his saucer. "So you didn't buy my 'villain' act after all. I thought it was rather believable myself. Actually, I was a bit worried you wouldn't recognize the significance of the book of matches."

"Oh, your acting was top notch, old chap. Which is why I had Watson play that little prank with the laser pointer. Fear produces a unique smell in a person's sweat. You had been cool as a cucumber throughout, but when that little dot appeared over my heart you were positively reeking of the enzyme."

"Well, I can't deny I love you, little bro," Sherrinford said fondly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "And that will be quite enough of filial bonding, thank you." He leaned over and stole the biscuit from Watson's saucer. "What are you planning to do with your life now? After the reception at the palace, of course."

Sherrinford started to laugh. "Do you still remember the last occasion we went there? It was your turn to receive a recommendation from her majesty back then."

"How could I forget," Sherlock muttered.

"Why, what happened?" Watson asked.

"Hang on, that photo must exist on the web somewhere," Sherrinford said still giggling, pulling his phone from his pocket and starting to search.

"Don't bother, I have taken pains to eradicate every existing record of this horrific experience," Sherlock said.

"Oh, the internet is a black hole, it gobbles up everything and nothing is ever lost for good. Ah, you see, here it is."

Sherrinford handed the phone to Watson who broke out laughing. "Oh my god, Sherlock what happened to your hair?"

Glaring at his sibling, Sherlock said through clenched teeth, "A certain prankster in the family put bleach into my shampoo bottle the morning of the reception."

"Well, count yourself lucky I didn't use depilatory cream," Sherrinford teased.

"Oh, put that away Watson. And if I ever find out you have shared this with anyone else there will be dire consequences, I assure you," Sherlock threatened. He turned to Sherrinfod. "But back to my original question, I assume you have further plans aside from making my life miserable? For example by not returning things I was kind enough to lend you." He cast an accusatory glance at the leather jacket hanging from the back of his brother's chair.

Ignoring the last comment for now, Sherrinford nodded. "To begin with, I've handed in my resignation to the Air Force. After the life I've been living I doubt that military protocol and discipline are still for me. And funny that you mention clothes, Sherlock. I was wondering if I could borrow something a little more dressy. I have a job interview in an hour."

"A job interview?" Watson said. "Where?"

"With a casting agent. She tried to sign me up after seeing me in a play at uni. So I contacted her and asked if she was still interested. And she is."

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, this is priceless. A thespian in the family. Mycroft won't be able to show his face at his club ever again."

"There's nothing wrong with a career on the stage," John pointed out.

"Well, I think I lack some serious classical training in order to make it in the theatre," Sherrinford said. "But apparently the BBC is casting for an adaptation of a Le Carré thriller, and they want a 'fresh' face for the lead."

"TV? Oh, this is getting better and better," Sherlock exclaimed.

"So how about some rags to help me make a good expression?" Sherrinford asked.

"Oh, very well. Go and raid my wardrobe. But the jacket stays here," Sherlock replied firmly.

"You are too kind, brother dear," Sherrinford said, getting up from his chair and heading towards the bedroom. "Just imagine," he called back over his shoulder, "if I land the lead role I'll be playing a guy going undercover!"


End file.
